


Remember, remember, the fifth of November.

by StarkDusted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apparently my work reflects that, I personally have many, Im sorry for my mistakes, M/M, because Jim slapping Sherlock's arse in front of Mycroft is an intriguing thought, tumblr will be the death of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:58:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7076035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkDusted/pseuds/StarkDusted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by tumblr. (Again)</p>
<p>Mycroft finds out about Jim and Sherlock in a rather interesting fashion.</p>
<p> Namely, Jim shuts down the British Governent simply by slapping and grabbing Sherlock's arse in front of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember, remember, the fifth of November.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, and definitely not my best work, as most will be able to see, but this was one of those pieces I would rather post so it isn't rotting with the other forgotten little one shots in the hard drives of my computer, because there are soooo many.

Today, so far, was a very good day for Sherlock Holmes. He’d managed to sleep last night, mainly due to the presence of one consulting criminal having spent the night over due to John _conveniently_ receiving tickets to a medical conference in Edinburgh. He’d also awoken to some rather...pleasing activities, which certainly put him in good stead for the continuation of his excellent morning.

So, it perhaps should have been incredibly predictable that it was quickly going to turn into a horrid mess, and all in the form of one thing.

Mycroft.

Having wandered from his room, he froze predictably in the doorway  for a mere moment, before he was stepping forward and slamming the door shut behind him with a bang that would surely awake Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft must know then, and if he hadn’t before, he must have seen Jim flitting around the interior of his bedroom or perhaps them speaking had he been here long enough. It was an odd kind of panic that welled in him, because out of all people, Mycroft’s reaction would be most unpredictable. There were far too many variables and possibilities to be accurately sure of what probability was a possibility. They were simply guesses, estimations, and Sherlock _loathed_ guessing.

Regardless, the problem was here now, casually leaning against the corner of the kitchen table, and dangerously close to knocking over one of the beakers filled with his month old mould cultures that he had painstakingly grown as was needed to replicate a crime scene, and that problem didn’t appear to be leaving any time in the near future.

His brother barely seemed to lift a brow at his ruffled appearance, which was more than a little alarming, his inky curls tousled like a windblown halo about his face, lips kiss swollen and reddened, and what was no doubt a colourful masterpiece of marks decorating his collarbones and the slopes of his neck and shoulders. That, and he was clothed in nothing but one of his robes –the blue satin one on this occasion- which clearly left only one explanation to what had happened the night previous. Yet Sherlock was still going to at least _attempt_ to claim otherwise.

“It isn’t what it looks like.”  
  
The only answer he received was the casual twirling of that frustrating umbrella, the metal tip tapping harshly against the kitchen flooring. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, clearly disbelieving of his little brother’s claims.

“Isn’t it, brother? It seems that you’ve finally found someone to settle down with, at least to a degree. When do I meet the lucky...man?”  
  
Mycroft cocked his brow and smiled in that insufferable way, and Sherlock was hit with the sudden realisation that, despite his brother always claiming to see and know everything, Mycroft wasn’t even faintly aware of what had been going on between him and Jim at all. His older brother was actually completely and entirely clueless. Oh, Sherlock’s day just improved again. How incredibly amusing.

“Never.”  
  
“I had never assumed you to be the type to initiate a one night fling.”  
  
“I’m not. I was merely insinuating that even should this long term relationship continue on into the future, you still will not meet him,” Sherlock snapped back, a petulant huff escaping him.  


Mycroft’s answer was nothing more than a smooth exhale, a long suffering sigh escaping his thinned lips as he tips his head back slightly to further exaggerate the roll of his eyes at his brother’s lack of maturity. “Sherlock,” he begins in that droll tone that he ssonly ever used when Sherlock was being overly stubborn, eyes coming back to rest on Sherlock’s figure. “If this indeed a long term relationship as you so breezily claim, then I will desire to meet this particular person just so I am able to gauge if they are safe or-“

“Oh, I would say I’m safe, wouldn’t you, Sher? Well, upon technicality, I am the most dangerous man in Europe, but I always keep things I deem precious safe, and that very limited list is inclusive of you dear.”

Jim.

Sherlock internally cursed, but dared not to turn, already fully aware of the appearance of Jim behind his back, simply by the expression on Mycroft’s face, which was a very amusing cross between shock and horror.

His eyes briefly flickered back to the form of Jim, and of course, the consulting criminal hadn’t been hiding because Mycroft was here and he feared discovery. No, he’d been forming his own personal battle plan on how to best shock Mycroft into apparent dysfunction. That in itself was clear to see simply by what Jim was wearing. His purple button up shirt hung artfully low on one shoulder, exposing the pale canvas of Jim’s skin on one side, the side that was blooming with its own marks, though his were much lighter in comparison to the ones that Jim had left on his skin. The buttons were done up haphazardly, and in some places he had missed buttons altogether, the shirt just managing to brush over the middle of his thighs with every slight shift. The sleeves had been pushed up to leave Jim’s forearms free and his hands accessible, and his hair was definitely more pillow mussed than when he had left the bedroom. The mere vision of Jim in his shirt was enough to get his blood rushing at a faster paced rhythm, for the heat to swelter through his veins like it was molten magma pumping through his veins with every beat.

Ever so slowly, Jim came to stand by his side, his face twisted into a mocking parody of worry. “Oops. I think I broke him. Have you got the manual to fix the British Government or does it just....fix itself?”

Sherlock snorted, the shock and mild anxiety that had settled in his stomach having dissipated enough for him to truly appreciate the owlish blinking Mycroft was currently engaging in, shaking his head slightly.

“In which time period has the British Government ever been fully capable of fixing themselves?” Sherlock asks, lips playing up at the edges and curling into a smile that only ever Jim seemed to be able to coax from him.

Jim hummed, the sound low and almost thunderous as his head tipped to the side slightly in acknowledgement. “I suppose you do have a point. I wonder if he would notice...if I did this then?” Jim’s voice was a salacious purr, loud enough for both his and his brother’s ears, even despite Jim having stood on his tiptoes in an effort to make it appear as though he was attempting to whisper. In a movement Sherlock had not had the chance to anticipate –Jim always was rather impulsive when he desired to be- Jim very deliberately and _very_ firmly brought his hand down over Sherlock’s arse. The sensation felt as strong as the sound echoing in the kitchen did, and though Sherlock most likely would have retaliated in kind back in the bedroom, he dared not to now. He barely managed to keep the resulting sound caged, swallowing thickly as he shuddered.

The slap seemingly snapped Mycroft back online, his eyes going comically wide, and oh, how Sherlock desired to have a camera. Perhaps there was a way to hack the feeds to the surveillance cameras that Mycroft had hidden in their kitchen. Sherlock simply _needed_ physical evidence of the myriad of expressions passing over Mycroft’s face.

Jim pouted slightly, almost looking off put that the opposite of what he expected occurred. He gripped Sherlock’s arse tightly in one hand, and something in his gaze made Sherlock inhale a shuddery breath, a strangled moan falling from his lips even despite trying to remain composed. If the slap had snapped Mycroft online, that had snapped him into action, and wordlessly, but with a gaze that clearly said they would be discussing this later on, he fled the flat quicker than Sherlock had ever seen him go.

“Shame. I didn’t even get to ask if he wanted to stay for tea,” Jim mumbles as his lips ghost over prominent collar bones, an echo of the night previous, as they linger over defined marks. Sherlock could feel Jim’s smile against his skin, a victorious but devious tilting of his lips that leaves Sherlock breathlessly chuckling.  His long fingers find a part where several buttons had been missed, using it as a handhold to drag Jim’s body against his own.

“Neither of us would have lasted through tea.”

“Mmm....that was rather my point. Imagine how much that would have broken your dear older brother.”

“I think we have enough material to taunt him with till at least next year, so perhaps it would be best to wait for that.  Now, shall I recommend we divert our attention to much more...pressing matters?”

“We still haven’t christened the table,” Jim inputs with a challenging smirk. “And I’ve still neglected to wear pants.”

“Table it is.”


End file.
